


Kicking the Crap out of Captain Atom & Co

by Anonymous



Category: DCU (Comics), Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Justice League - All Media Types, Justice League International (Comics), Justice League of America (Comics)
Genre: Adult Content, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Multi, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29856132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Various fills for the Dreamwidth DC Kinkmeme, focused on prompts for Captain Atom and Major Force.
Relationships: Nathaniel Adam/Bette sans Souci
Kudos: 1
Collections: DC Kink Meme





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Contains heavy content. Mind the trigger warnings at the top of each chapter, and turn back now if you are a minor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for: self-harm, cutting, blood, described injuries and unintentional suicide attempt.

It starts with a simple scuff of his knee against the coffee table. It's the first injury he's gotten in his 'human' form since he came back, and the way microscopic droplets of blood well up is suddenly fascinating in the most unnatural way. 

When Nate has a second to himself he drags his pant leg up over his thigh and examines his knee, comparing the sensations to Before and After. The corner of the table is imprinted into his skin in a purple-red chevron, blood prickling in the deepest corner of it. His pain tolerance is high, even higher than Before thanks to the tests Eiling forces him through, but there's still that faint stinging pain when Nate rubs his thumb against the divot.

He doesn't understand his own reaction, but he doesn't stop himself. He doesn't really want to. 

A few days later, he takes his pocketknife and sharpens it on the shitty little whetstone he'd picked up from Goodwill on a whim. Sharpens it over and over, one side and then the other, listening but not comprehending the story on the radio.

When he was a child, stuck in foster care and often relegated to time-outs and after school punishment, he'd bite his own forearms out of rage until his teeth formed arcane patterns in tender pale skin. It didn't matter that the nuns tended to use a ruler right over where he'd bitten himself: he had to get it out somehow or he was going to hurt someone.

Now, however, he's got a bit more sense about it. Instead of using dirty teeth, he sterilizes his sharpened knife with alcohol. Instead of his forearms, he nicks his chest inbetween his pecs in one easy little twist of his hand. 

The first cut is experimental, to see if he's got the guts to do it without flinching. He leans over the bathroom sink and watches in the mirror as a droplet wells up and trails down his chest, making it down to the second line of his abs before it loses steam. 

Flesh and blood. He can still sense the electricity humming through the exposed bulb above his head, but the blood that's starting to dry on his skin doesn't do anything except cool. Nothing special about it, at least, not to the layman's eye. It's just blood.

Equal parts satisfied and nauseated at himself, Nate rinses the knife off in steaming hot water from the tap and uses a black washcloth to clean the cut. He applies pressure until the blood stops trying to seep out, then finds himself one of many black tshirts and tries to put his sudden weakness out of mind, tries to resist the urge to press his fingers against the cut to feel the scab.

Of course he does it again. He has no self control, not really-- he's just a creature of impulses working off of input, little better than a dog, _except a dog wouldn't turn on its own master like you did, Captain_. When he comes back home humming with the energy absorbed from Parasite, when his nerves feel like they're on fire even after he powers down, his hand goes to his knife again as if on instinct. 

This time there's no hesitation, no half-touches, no flinching. In the back of his brain is a voice telling him to sink the knife inbetween two ribs, but instead he cuts himself over his heart. The blade is still wet from the alcohol he used to sterilize it, and he hisses through his teeth at the sting. 

He watches the blood run down, mirror between his knees and tilted upwards. The cut isn't too deep, but it's as long as his pinkie finger, and bleeds rather spectacularly despite how shallow it is. His palm is damp and his heart is still hammering, but his mind is starting to calm.

Again: the black washcloth, the black shirt. It takes a lot longer for the cut to stop bleeding this time, but eventually it clots on its own and Nate settles back into the couch for a rerun of Law and Order. He picked up a flat-screen off the side of the road the other day to replace his old CRT, so now he can watch TV without feeling his teeth itch from the light.

 _Human_. Congress has a special committee on metahuman affairs now, and for some reason the first thing they do (instead of sensible things, like vigilante tracking or investigating metahuman traffickers) is bring up the question of whether or not the law should apply equally to metahumans as it does humans. Nate spends two days in front of that committee, because he's the one out of all the League who knows how to speak their language almost fluently, and because his status as a military man commands some kind of respect. 

He fails, of course. Because the existing legislation rolls "alien" under "metahuman", they have to go back to the drawing board, lest there be some kind of interstellar diplomatic incident. Two days of talking his head off and lulling himself into a false sense of accomplishment, only for months of progress towards metahuman equality to be undone. Because of the same fucking species-centrism that means good people-- like J'onn, and Superman, and Diana-- can't defend themselves in courts of law.

That night's cut goes deep, right under the left side of his collarbone, savage and jagged as pain makes his hand unsteady. _The Air Force's silver golem,_ FOX News called him. Talking heads gathered around a table calling his gut-deep convictions 'admirable but misguided'. Simplistic view of a complex situation, you'd think being through a couple alien invasions would have made him understand that accidentally providing amnesty to extraterrestrials who don't even have green cards would be a disaster, _look at this thing, thinks he's still human enough to comment on our culture--_

He ends up with four symmetrical lines on his chest, split over each pectoral, blood staining the band of his boxers bright red. In the middle is where the starburst would be if he'd been armored up. Almost like his captain's insignia. He drops his knife on the floor, staring at his pale-faced sweating reflection framed by jagged red lines, eyes wide in horror at this strange thing in the mirror.

If he goes down far enough, maybe he can find the dilusteel and just fucking _pull_ it out. End this, go back to normal, so his own daughter won't be scared to hold his hand. 

So his son will talk to him again. 

His knees give out on him and he's crying on the bathroom floor for God only knows how long, and then life resumes and he ends up using an entire roll of paper towels to clean up the blood. The floor is linoleum, so cold water removes the visible evidence, but he makes a mental note to use bleach later. Just in case.

The shower is so cold Nate's toes are numb when he finally pries away, but his cuts have finally stopped bleeding. Some of them could use some stitches, but now his hands aren't steady enough for that, so he puts on another black tshirt and flips the bottom up over his chest to lightly compress them. He sleeps on top of his blankets, on top of a towel to make sure nothing soaks through in the night.

The cuts are inflamed in the morning, so he washes them out again and suffers through drenching them with alcohol, downing some of it too despite the taste. He's not sure what the point of it all is, since he's going to be spending the entire day powered up anyways, but going out from a self-inflicted infection seems like a very ignominious way to die. 

"Here Lies Nathaniel Christopher Adam, Incapable of Saying Two Words". 

He can't be too far gone if he can still laugh (bitterly) at his own circumstances, he figures. 

During his League shift the next day he has so much trouble not snapping at people that he's gently pushed onto monitor duty half an hour early just to get him away from people who process emotions normally. Not that he blames Superman for it, it's impossible to blame that face for anything, but the last thing Nate wants is to be stuck in a chair staring at screens for five hours. When Booster comes in to make a nuisance of himself, Nate bends himself in half indulging him just for the basic _human_ contact, but all too soon Booster's gone and Nate's looking through the screens again. 

What would his wife think, if she could see him now? He'd tried to play the hero so hard that now he had the role whether he liked it or not, with all the sacrifices and grief that came with it. Even the phantom of her disappointment that Nate conjures in his mind's eye is almost too much to bear. 

"Captain?"

J'onn, whose body temperature lingers somewhere around 86, can sneak up on him better than anyone else on the Watchtower. Nate jolts and turns to look up at him. "Sorry, J'onn, I didn't see you there. Did you say somethin'?"

"There is a situation in Mexico that requires your abilities. I will relieve you here. Go to the transporter and wait for Superman and Green Lantern." 

Oh, thank God, _work_. Nate doesn't bother walking: he flies all the way down to the transporter room like a man possessed, pacing in tight circles until GL gets off his ass. 

It turns out that four miles of the Rio Grande river are on fire. Along with its banks, which are beginning to spark smaller fires into a nearby suburb, catching along the fronds of palm trees. The teleporter spits the three of them out a mile and a half above the worst of it, and Nate is immediately hit with an unnatural clash of cold and hot air waves from the burning chemical slick sitting on top of the water. He can't smell when he's powered up, but both Superman and GL tell him it smells like burning tires mixed with turpentine. 

Absorbing the fire is the easy part. Keeping it from sparking up again is a little harder-- whatever the material is, it very much doesn't like smacking against itself while being oxygenated-- but nothing Nate can't handle. GL starts to collect the residue while Nate moves off to the smaller residential fires. Almost everyone is evacuated in a two-mile radius, and Nate can guess why they've been so efficient. The enormous houses practically glow white in the afternoon sun, set amongst their green lawns like teeth in strange jaws.

Unfortunately, the standing evacuation means he doesn't expect the scream when he hears it. The fence adjoining two houses has gone up in flame and just out of his range of view is a little plastic playhouse, one of those cheap Fisher-Price things Peggy had begged him for when she was three. Nate dives in so fast the flame almost gutters out just from the shockwave of his full stop, but even as the fire sinks into his palms he can see the tiny figure inside is writhing. 

Pulling the girl out of her melting safehouse only makes it worse. Most children react to Nate with some mixture of wonder and caution after they talk to him, but in an emergency he doesn't have time to soothe nerves and smile softly. And she's in hideous pain-- screaming her lungs out so hard she's burst a capillary in her left eye. The way she's holding her hands out makes it look like she's begging to be held, but when she lifts them up to try and make the shiny monster stay away, her palms are raw and smeared with melted plastic. 

Nate doesn't have a choice. He picks her up, lifting her shirt up so the dilusteel has better purchase against her skin, and flies her low across the water to the paramedics. By the time he sets her down on a gurney, she's gone silent and limp, eyes half-open. Not dead-- he doesn't speak Spanish but he can tell by their reactions-- just passed out. 

He goes back to the water. GL is dredging the surface carefully for remnants of the chemical spill, but there are still embers trying to ignite. The sun is blazing hot overhead; at every angle Nate's buffeted by light and heat, and he reaches out with senses that he can't quantify into words, dragging it all _in_. Sunlight itself bends to his will, forming colors unseen to the human eye before now. Ambient heat flows into his core, fire flickers out of existence the second it touches his fingers, and it's not fucking _enough_. He doesn't need power-- he needs _hurt_. 

He barely manages to keep a lid on himself until they get back to the Watchtower. Superman and GL are both respectful of his sullen silence, and Nate's had a habit of running off post-mission since he joined (to perform his regular betrayal of the League by filing his reports) so him flying off isn't unusual. 

Under the dilusteel he's only got a tank top and boxers on, but he has a locker with an extra change of clothes, and on his way to the single-use restroom he grabs a paring knife from the kitchen and folds it up in his hoodie. His hands are shaking the moment he closes the bathroom door and powers down, but he folds up his clean clothes, setting them on top of the toilet lid. Sweat plasters his overgrown bangs to his forehead.

He pulls off his tank top, watching himself and feeling almost voyeuristic at his own reflection's juddery movements. As if he's watching a rat chew off its own foot, and not himself, about to do something he might regret later.

The other cuts aren't as inflamed as they were the morning of, but they still hurt-- just not enough. Nate rakes his fingernail against the edge of the blade, sucking on his teeth. He can't sharpen it here. If he waits that long the urge is going to make him do something a lot worse than just hacking at himself.

Slowly, remembering the outline of his symbol by heart, he starts to cut. It's not nearly as perfect as the actual starburst, but it'll have to do. 

_Monstruo, monstruo! Alguien ayúdeme!_

Yes. The blood looks human enough, but in it is the truth: Nathaniel Adam is dead. Of course it's reasonable to be frightened of a walking dead man, held together by alien bastardry. He frightens himself.

When the blood slicks his fingers too much to hang onto the handle, he switches to his nondominant hand, using the mirror to try and get the outline as symmetrical as possible. If he's going to be a monster, then he'll be the best one possible. The Air Force demands him at his best, even at the expense of everything else in his life. 

When the final line intersects itself Nate drops the knife in the sink, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the porcelain edges as he beholds his own work. The way the light hits the outline makes the blood seem like it's almost glittering white, like the dilusteel is streaming down his chest along with the blood.

"Isn't that pretty," he rasps to no one in particular. He reaches out, drawing the starburst over his chest in the mirror, watching the blood trail down. His breath fogs his own face, making it seem even greyer.

"I'm Captain Atom," he declares. " _I'm_.. Captain Atom. I _am_ Captain.. Ad-- Atom."

Nothing else. Just him, and the quantum field. No wife, no children, no friends, no home-- not for Captain Atom. 

When he loses himself and falls backwards, it's into a pair of arms that catch him before he hits his head on the floor. His vision swims as he struggles to recognize the blurry mass of primary colors in front of his face, but finally the green and blue sharpen into J'onn.

"Captain-- _Captain_ , can you hear me? Cameron--" J'onn waves a hand in front of his face, snaps his fingers, and Nate can't help his ugly laugh at that godawful name. First name first name first name. Story of his life. 

"Tha'ssnot m'name," he slurs out, and lets his eyes fall shut as the cold settles into his gut.

He wakes to twilight, bathed in a soft orange light that makes him think he's home for a long moment. It's only when he tries to move his right hand that he realizes something is off, and his brain wants to panic, but it feels like someone's laid a warm heavy blanket over his mind. 

"Captain." Someone's cool hand touches his. J'onn, he realizes, because J'onn gently makes him recognize him. Nate pries his weighty eyelids open and wills his neck to move. 

Ah, yes. He tried to do something very stupid. Again, panic tries to well up, but gets muffled under the loving embrace of pharmaceuticals. What does leak through comes out in the form of tears prickling the corners of Nate's eyes. He hasn't cried since.. well, no, he cries a lot, nowadays. Just in private.

"It's going to be alright," J'onn tells him, leaning in. The conviction of hundreds of years is in his eyes. "I know it does not feel like it will ever be alright again, but it will."

Nate sucks in a breath as the reality of the situation comes crashing down on him: a founder of the fucking Justice League is holding his hand after finding him on the Watchtower apparently trying to kill himself. The entire house of cards is going to implode on itself; there's no way to explain why a formerly sane man would carve his chest open without exposing the rest of the truth. A sob forces its way out, terror and humiliation fusing into one awful combination in the pit of his throat. Xanax is only so effective when your great lie has been exposed.

"Captain." Very gently, J'onn raises a hand to his cheek, his movements slow and deliberate as he cups Nate's head. The sudden tender contact doesn't help Nate keep his composure at all-- it's the first time someone unrelated to him has touched him gently, with _care_ , since he got back. 

"I'm s-suh- _sorreee_ ," he bawls. Broken into pieces by hardly more than a light brush of an alien thumb against his cheek. J'onn's other hand grips Nate's free one, fingers interlacing, his right palm pressing against Nate's forehead. "I d-- didn't _wan--_ God, oh God, I'm ss _sor-ry-y_ \--"

"I know," J'onn says. His voice is soft and calm, his face too sincerely empathic for Nate to look at. Nate cries so hard the bed underneath him shakes with the force of his sobs, gripping J'onn's hand as tight as he possibly can, and J'onn just _stays_ there. He doesn't say anything, but his hands don't move except to brush Nate's hair back when he starts to calm down. 

When Nate's mostly quiet, sucking in noisy sniffling breaths and shivering, J'onn reaches across to undo the single cuff keeping his right hand attached to the bed rail. (More a formality, really.) He hands Nate a box of Kleenex and adjusts the bed so Nate's sitting up enough to be able to blow his own nose. While Nate goes through what seems like half the box trying to regain his composure, J'onn gets him a glass of water and then gingerly scoops the used tissues into a wastebasket.

Nate sucks down the water in record time and then leans back against the bed, dragging in air like he'd just run a marathon. He reaches up, pressing his palm to his chest, and then lifts up the neckline of his gown.

Nothing. Not even scars. 

"What happened?" Nate looks up at J'onn.

"Diana has a piece of technology from Themyscira which is quite useful for surface injuries. We were hesitant to give you a blood infusion considering the unique qualities of your immune system, so you will still be weak for a day or so." J'onn folds his hands in his lap. "You lost an impressive amount of blood."

"Uh huh," Nate mumbles. "Sorry about the bathroom."

"You were not in your right mind," J'onn says. 

"No shit. Is that how you found me?" Nate smoothes out his gown and lays back against the pillows, his head unbearably heavy. 

"Yes and no. I sensed the distress of someone onboard the Watchtower, so I asked Batman to look over the recent surveillance footage. He saw you grab a knife from the kitchen and disappear into the single-occupant restroom." J'onn leans in slightly. "From the other injuries you had, it looked like this was a beginning pattern of yours. Am I right?"

Nate chews on his lip and lets his eyes fall shut, struggling to think of anything besides that starburst cut into his chest like a child doodling on the wall with crayons. "...yeah. I, uh. I haven't been havin' the best time."

"Would you like to explain now, or do you want to rest first?" 

"I..." Nate pauses, struggling to put his objection into sensible words. "I don't wanna have to tell the story seven times over. Can ya.. I don't know.."

"We can wait," J'onn offers, "perhaps a day, and then convene a board meeting with all of the founders. If you're not overwhelmed."

"I've _been_ overwhelmed. I want to talk." Nate looks up at J'onn, trying to project the sincerity gripping his heart. J'onn nods slowly.

"I have one question," he begins, his voice turning soft again. "What is your name?"

Oh. Nate bites his tongue to keep from shedding tears again. "S' Nathaniel. Nathaniel Christopher Adam."

"It's good to meet you, Nathaniel." J'onn touches his right hand, fingers brushing against his knuckles, and Nate flashes him a smile that's exhausted and nervous and sincere all at once.

"You, too," he says, barely above a whisper.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for: explicit rape with accompanying injuries, most of which are described in detail. Blood, biting, restraints, forced orgasm.

Post-rehabilitation after her powers began to cause hormonal deficiency, Bette Sans Souci is beginning to remember how very good life can be when you're not on the run twenty-three hours a day. Part of her misses her ability to produce concussive blasts of energy, but the rest of her is enjoying this perfect day too much-- by herself, no disguise, no hat, sweatpants and t-shirt on a park bench. The sun is soaking into her, a layer of warmth against the crisp early spring air, and her coffee is still hot.

She does miss the French-Quebecois cafes back home. That's one of the bad things about her new lease on life: Canada has made it unequivocally clear that they do not want her back. Which isn't surprising, seeing as how she bombed several government facilities, but Quebec was where she was born and made into the woman that she was.

Nathaniel is good at easing her homesickness. He doesn't quite understand why she wants her alone time, but he's always willing to let her run off now that she's gotten her bearings in D.C., and when she comes back his embrace is as warm and strong as it was in the morning.

Life is strange, she thinks, prying herself away from her bench to start ambling back towards their shared apartment. Years of one-night-stands and soulless exchanges for information have made her forget what it's like to have a caring partner, much less a _man_. Sometimes she can't believe Nate's sincerity when he tells her how grateful he is for her, and sometimes she bites his neck to keep him from giving her yet another of those soul-hungering kisses. 

Bette stops at the same flower stand she'd passed earlier and ponders the selection of single roses, drawing her ginger hair back from her face. Nate very rarely gives her flowers, because he doesn't like the impermanence of cut flowers and Bette kills anything in a pot by looking at it, but maybe this gesture would be all the more appreciated for it. 

She takes the risk, gives the woman attending the stand a five and smells the rose as she crosses the street. Crisp and sweet and light, a perfect red with a bit of lighter blushing at the root of each petal. A play in colors, like the depth of Nate's dark and warm eyes. 

A flash of white hair across the street makes her pause and she realizes that it's Nate-- carrying a red box. Apparently he had the same idea as her, but chose to indulge her sweet tooth instead. She immediately ducks behind their apartment building, forgetting about dirtying her shoes as she creeps along the dumpsters. She wants him to get home and stew in his surprise for a good few minutes before she comes home. Anticipation makes it all the sweeter.

Unfortunately, the last year has made her lax in watching her surroundings. The apartment building backs up to a vacant office complex, a hideous thing from the 70s that'll hopefully be knocked down soon, but the back door that opens doesn't alarm Bette like it should. Suddenly two hands grab her, one around her waist and the other clamped over her mouth, and with very little fanfare she's dragged backwards kicking and scrabbling into the service hallway. The rose gets dropped along the way, a forgotten thorn nicking her thumb as Bette tries to scrabble for purchase on her abductor.

The door slams shut behind them and the hand around her waist releases only to come up and smack the back of her head hard enough to render everything fuzzy and dark. Whoever has her is so inhumanly strong that she's tossed over his shoulder like a rag doll, and the impact of her chest against his shoulder nearly knocks the air out of her, like she's been thrown against a statue. 

After a minute or two of being bounced against a worn leather jacket stretched across the back of what must be an _enormous_ man, Bette is unceremoniously dumped out on the floor of an abandoned office. The windows are boarded, so it must be on the first floor or close to it-- she tries to sit up, get some view of her surroundings, but his hand plants firmly in the middle of her chest and slams her back down.

Major Force's grinning face stares down at her as he takes off his baseball cap and sunglasses, his eyes gleaming a venomous yellow. Nate had always taken pains to make sure Bette was never alone with him, but he'd never explained to her why. 

"Sorry about the accommodations, Miss," the Major says, his hand resting in the middle of her chest. "I wanted to get us a nice hotel room or somethin', but you know how expensive it is around here. Don't know how you and Captain Boy Scout can afford your place, but it sure looks nice."

"What do you want from me?" Bette demands. The Major shrugs and throws a leg over hers to keep her from moving, sitting on the floor as he crosses his arms.

"I'm a man, sorta, yer a woman, _definitely_. Plus yer datin' a guy I absolutely despise." His burgundy face splits into a cold leer. "How good is he in bed, anyways? I've always thought of him as a two-pump chump. Four inches, max."

"I can tell you," Bette says with more bravado than she actually feels, "that he gets on with the task instead of sitting on the edge of the bed like a toddler complaining about men he feels threatened by."

She expects the Major to slap her, or choke her, or rip her clothes off in a fit of rage-- all the perfunctory masculine things that men who feed off powerlessness do. Instead, he grabs her by the neck of her tshirt and kisses her, hard enough that her lip splits against his teeth. She tries to use her powers, despite knowing they're dampened, and all that comes out is a pathetic sparkle and the faint popping of displaced hot air. 

"Oh, that's _sad,_ " the Major says as he pulls away, grinning at the wisps of smoke. "You're his pet project, huh? Gonna teach ya how to be a woman again, all that soft shit? I don't think he'll want to wife you after I'm done with you, baby."

"Wait--" Bette scrambles, fruitlessly trying to get some purchase on his jacket so she can lift herself up in range of his eyes-- but the Major's right hand hums and Bette gets pinned down by a mass of tar-like black matter. First one hand, then the other, and then he sits back to examine his work with an appreciating eye as she tries to pull free. 

"They always forget about that," he remarks. Bette grits her teeth against the scream that wants to rip out of her as he lifts up her shirt and pulls at the seams of her bra. He's right, the windows are boarded on top of the glass, and on a Sunday there won't be any construction workers in the building. She doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of hysterics.

"Very nice," he proclaims, and swings his leg off of her so he can move down to her sweats. "Where'd all those scars come from, miss Souci? You get into a lot of trouble?"

She doesn't say anything; instead she kicks at him as he pulls down her sweatpants over her tennis shoes, but the impact of her knee against his chest only makes her hiss. The Major snorts down at her as he tosses her pants aside. 

"I could have told ya that wouldn't work. These are _real_ nice, though," and he fiddles with the waistband of her briefs. "Present from Nate? Naw, that's alright, I can tell he bought 'em for ya. You look like the kind of lady who wouldn't be caught dead in anything outside of lace." He rips them off of her in one easy motion, then raises the cotton liner to his face to smell it before he tosses the fabric scraps into the same pile with her pants. "Doesn't smell like nothin'. Downside of being invulnerable. Used to be my second favorite part about fucking a woman."

Bette holds her knees shut and finally lets out a snarl as he pries her thighs apart; the Major just laughs in response, as if it's a game of friendly wrestling on the living room floor. He wedges himself inbetween her knees and grabs both of her ankles in one hand, bending her legs back and bearing his weight on her when she keeps struggling. 

"C'mon, honey, just _relax_ ," he croons at her sickeningly sweet. His free hand disappears from her view but she feels his fingers slide down her lips, almost too hot to the touch and glass-smooth. She jolts away with a low, dreading groan, turning her face until her right cheek presses against the stained grey carpet. 

When his finger breaches her she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from yelling at him to just get on with it already-- his hand is bruising tight around her ankles but he's almost _delicate_ as he twists and crooks his finger inside of her, like he's genuinely trying to get her warmed up. 

"Relax," he tells her again, pushing her knees towards her chest. "You're not gonna hurry this up, so you might as well sit back and try to enjoy the good part, huh? I wanna make you come before I start getting rough."

"Why-- on _Earth_ would you-- want to do that?" Bette spits out, her hips twisting away from him as he reaches in deeper. He grins as he starts pumping his finger in and out of her, mostly focused on his work and not her face. 

"Cause I'm in charge, and I know you wanna be all virtuous and true to your man, but in the end all your pussy cares about is if somebody rubs it right. Doesn't matter if it's me, Nate or fuckin' Batman." He twists his hand, his thumb finding her clit and dragging a lazy circle into it, and Bette's teeth grind at the sudden burst of pleasure. When she opens her eyes the Major's watching her face, predatory and content. "See what I mean?"

"You're not him," Bette says, her arms shaking as she tries to pull free of her black matter restraints. The Major keeps rubbing her clit, slowly adding another finger in alongside, and Bette squeezes her eyes shut again as the heat starts to build. She doesn't understand why her body is starting to respond, but even with her eyes closed she can hear how slick the Major's fingers are as he keeps rocking them in and out of her slowly. 

"No, but if I was him, I'd be keeping a better eye on my woman. Hot piece like you, that's a rare find. I'm probably not the first man who's thought about doin' this." He reaches in and crooks his fingers against the same spot Nate likes to hit when he makes love to her, and Bette tenses up with a low groan, lips curling at the Major's chuckle. "Right there, huh? He found all your spots yet? Or is he savin' himself for marriage again like a good boy?"

"Shut _up_ ," Bette growls, willing herself to hold still and suffer through it. With her fingers nearly being crushed by the black matter, it wouldn't have made a difference even if she could use a concussive blast-- she'd blow her hands off before she got free. 

"It's alright, you know." He stops moving, though his thumb rests against her clit, and then the rim of her cunt starts to burn as he stretches her open with a third finger. Almost worse than the mild pain is the way her walls insist on clutching at the invading pressure, trying to drag all three fingers in deeper to soothe the empty need deep inside her. "I know it gets hard, not havin' anybody. Believe me, those first couple years before I figured out how to get my dick goin' were _rough._ Surrounded by pussy an' tits in spandex candy wrapping, and I couldn't have a single one of 'em. Turned me into an even meaner son of a bitch than I was before."

He pushes in down to the last knuckle on each finger, letting the heavy weight of his hand rest inside her and manipulating her clit. Her breath hisses out between her teeth as her cunt pulses with an especially firm stroke of his thumb, and the Major grins, humming a triumphant low laugh. "See? Feels good, don't it? Doesn't matter that you hate my guts. I'm real good at gettin' girls who hate me to come."

Trying to remind herself that it's only autonomic reflexes doesn't help. Trying to imagine that it's Nate especially doesn't help, because it's _not,_ and she doesn't want to taint every good memory she has of his gentle hands and husky voice with this violation. Bette shudders as the Major finds his rhythm, rubbing her clit up-and-down in a motion that drags his fingers against her walls at the same time, and when he lets go of her ankles her feet drop to the floor. She's well and truly stuck right now, but more importantly, she's not dead yet, and cooperating might ensure she stays alive.

"Good _girl_ ," the Major croons. She hears him unzip with his free hand and then his warm palm coasts up her belly, pinching and rolling one nipple and then the other so hard that she winces. She plants one shoe on his knee, mostly to steady herself as his moving hand makes her shift but also to prepare herself to kick him in the face should she manage to break free of her restraints. Just as she opens her eyes again, in horrified anticipation for the orgasm that's threatening to build around his fingers, the Major draws both hands away and unzips. 

"Sorry I didn't bring a condom," he drawls, pushing his jeans down and fishing for an erection that looks _far_ too big from the outside. "You can call him Cliff if you end up having a boy." 

"I doubt you're fertile," Bette snaps back, keeping her face steady even as he pulls himself out. The Major pushes her thighs further apart, grabbing her hips to lift her up at the proper angle, and Bette's lower half tenses at the sight of his cock. Nate is a struggle for her to take in certain positions, but the Major is a good inch thicker and perhaps two inches longer. The base of him is the same gold as his waist, but the dilusteel thins out further down his length, and the head of his length seems to be normal human skin flushed pink with arousal. 

"I hope not, if we're being honest. Can't afford child support on an Army salary." He rubs the bead of pre that wells up from his slit, then smears it over her clit, grinning as she tries to angle her hips away. "Bet you're glad I warmed you up now, huh? I've seen _that_ look before. Tell me the truth, is he bigger or smaller?"

"If it matters so much to you, go and ask him yourself." Bette yelps when he smacks her ass in response, but he's still giving her that same smug fucking grin and her fingers curl against the black matter as she imagines clawing his eyeballs out with her nails. Anything to distract from the imminent pain he's about to shove directly into her.

"I'll take that as 'smaller'." He grips her hip in one hand and guides himself in with the other, and Bette lasts for all of two seconds until she starts trying her damndest to kick him away, dull metallic thuds sounding when her shoes impact his chest. He ignores her, grunting low as her wild flailing makes her tighten around him, but when she lets out a high whine of pain he imitates it until she shuts herself up.

"Take it like a man, c'mon. _Fuck_ , you're tight." He's clamped down so hard on her hip that she almost fears him breaking her hipbone; despite the hammering pain radiating out from her abdomen she goes still and tense, holding her breath until she sees stars to avoid leaking tears. He bottoms out inside her with a few inches left to spare, rocking slightly and provoking a few stifled high noises from Bette with each jab. 

"That wasn't the hard part, so you better save your noises." The Major leans back on his haunches, drawing out by an inch or so and then just staying there. Bette is equal parts grateful and dreading the fact that he's letting her get used to his size-- things would be so much simpler and over so much quicker if he'd just take what he wanted and then go-- but then a buzz sounds from the pocket of her sweatpants and she jumps.

"Oh, who's that gonna be?" The Major leans across and grabs her phone, which she foolishly hasn't put a lock code on. "Ah, your boyfriend's lookin' for ya. He's got dinner on, he says. Wanna call him and tell him how much of a good time you're having?"

"No," Bette whimpers, cold terror seizing her. If her and the Major are the only ones who know about this it'll be easier to move on, find a way to kill the bastard and then do it without Nate knowing. He can't find out. She can't be _tainted_ , not after all the work she did getting clean for him.

"You sure? He's right here. We could even Facetime him." He turns the phone so she can see Nate's text, but Bette turns her head away. 

"Don't." Her voice is far too close to pleading now, but only a tiny part of her cares. "I'll do what you want, just don't call him. Please, Major."

"Hm, well, if ya ask nicely," and the Major sets her phone down just within his arms' reach. The motion makes him rock inside her again, and her toes curl when the motion isn't nearly as painful as she'd feared. "My name's Cliff, by the way."

"Cliff," she repeats, and he nods with a little smile, like an approving teacher. "Okay. Cliff."

"Attagirl." He grabs her hip again and without warning slides out almost all the way, provoking a squeak from her before he pushes back in. He's still being careful, and unwanted pleasure blooms in Bette's abdomen as his length spreads her open, the sensation translating to a fierce grimace as she struggles to reject it. 

His free hand finds her clit again and every muscle below Bette's neck tenses when his thumb runs over the nub so she doesn't cry out, her chest heaving in disjointed gasps for air with the effort to hold in any sign of pleasure. He times the careful slide of his thumb with firm but slow thrusts, low ragged _ohyeah_ s escaping him, and when Bette's thighs start trying to close of their own volition he grabs one and bends her leg back until her knee almost touches her chest, speeding up his thrusts.

"Come on, pretty girl, c'mon, I know you want it, I can see it," the Major-- Cliff-- taunts her, angling up until he hits her G-spot. She yelps, hips trying to twist in and away at the same time and Cliff laughs hoarsely as he captures that one perfect angle and keeps hammering her. "You gonna come for me, miss Souci?"

"N-nno--" Physically trying to stop herself from orgasming has never worked, even in better circumstances than these, but she bears down on him as hard as she possibly can in an effort to anyways. He flicks his thumb against her clit hard enough that it blurs the line between pain and pleasure and she finally moans, less like a woman too close to orgasm and more like a dying animal. 

" _Thaaat's_ it, that's what I wanna hear," Cliff croons at her, moving with almost machine machinelike precision. "Come on me, Betty, give it to me, come all over me, _there_ ya go--"

With a scream that's equal parts venting her utter horror and absolute pleasure, Bette launches over the edge and drives her hips down to meet his cock, her thighs spreading as she bucks into the waves of her peak. Cliff keeps fucking her straight through her orgasm, his cock pistoning into her as her walls contract, and her pitch goes sky-high as his rough thrusts send her into an overstimulated frenzy. 

"Hah-- _thaaat's iiit,_ fuck, you're so wet for me," Cliff groans, leaning over her with his hands braced at either side of her head. Ozone fills her nostrils and she lifts her legs away as his rising body temperature threatens to burn the insides of her thighs, her knees shaking with aftershocks of pleasure. Cliff speeds up, gusting hot air against her face and Bette cries out as his cock suddenly jabs her far too deep and hard.

"Play time's over, now _I_ get to come," Cliff growls, leaning back on his haunches and wrapping his hand around Bette's neck. His thumb and forefinger cup each side of her jaw as he forces her to look up at him, his massive figure blotting out the incandescent tube lights and the popcorn ceiling, and Bette lets out a strangled scream. His palm burns her skin, but she can _feel_ how his dick is bruising her internally with every inward thrust, and something hot and slick is starting to pool underneath her ass.

Distantly, her phone is vibrating against the floor. She can only hear the high notes of Nate's special ringtone over the sound of her own blood rushing in her ears, something about _it's fuck all y'all season_ , one of his favorite songs. 

"Nuh-uh, look at me," Cliff insists, shaking her head to get her attention back. "He ain't here, sweet thing, it's just you n' me. Lemme see them big black eyes, come on."

"No," she whines, trying to squirm away when he leans down to kiss her. The motion shifts his angle as he half-lays across her and she flails, trying to kick him away again, her scream muffled in his palm as he moves his hand up from her neck to her face. She squeezes her eyes shut and sobs as stars break across the black field of her vision. Her pulse feels centered in the lowest part of her pelvis, a constant drumbeat of pain synchronized with Cliff's ragged grunting.

"You ready for me?" His voice has that same strange echoing buzz to it that Nate's does when he's powered up, and she jolts away from the sudden nearness of his lips to her ear. He's half crushing her nose under his hand as he turns her head, and then his _teeth_ sink into her neck as easily as a knife through butter, his hips slamming hers into the floor. 

When he comes barely a minute later the sound that escapes him is hardly even human-- he lets go of her neck after the five longest seconds of Bette's entire life and sits up, grabbing her waist in both hands as he pulses inside her, and Bette throws every single curse she can think of in French at him as his boiling hot release fills her. It does nothing to erase the blissful look on his face as he tips his head back, but when she manages to land a kick to his jaw he grabs her ankle and rams her leg against the floor hard enough that something pops. 

"Not much for the afterglow, are ya?" He spits mixed saliva and blood on her belly, grinning down at her all slack and relaxed. Bette bangs her head back against the floor and sobs through gritted teeth, turning into a scream as he pulls out of her inch by tortured inch. _Something_ feels wrong and broken deep inside. She doesn't know what, but the sudden cold air touching her is the opposite of soothing. 

Cliff uses her sweatpants to wipe himself off before he starts putting himself back together, his belt buckle clicking into place, and Bette tries not to think about the bright red streak he's left behind on the fabric. "A-are you not-- going to--?"

"I'm not gonna _kill_ you, no. After that fuck? It'd be rude." He picks up her phone and contemplates it, then grins down at her. "Never said I was gonna let ya go, though. Considerin' how close you are to home, you ought to be able to find your way back just fine. But first..."

He kneels back down and raises her phone, fiddling with the settings for a second, and then the flash fires. Bette pulls herself up via core strength, trying her absolute best to pull herself free of the black matter. It's cooled and starting to break off into small pieces, but she still can't budge it, and Cliff just grins at her as he takes a few more pictures-- one of her face, one between her legs, and one standing over her. 

"There. He oughta be able to figure out where ya are based on that." He takes a moment to send them, one hand on his hip casually, and then when her phone pings to signal a received text he folds it in half with a crunch of glass and metal and drops it at her feet. "Very nice. Get yourself cleaned up, you could be a model. I'm gonna leave now before he figures out I just fucked his girlfriend in his own backyard."

"Wait," Bette pleads at his retreating back. "Cliff- _Major!_ At least let me-- _wait!_ "

The door shuts. Bette tries to pull at the black matter one last time, but her shoulders are adding to the symphony of pain thrumming through her entire body, and finally she relaxes against the floor with a whining sob. 

Now that she's alone, the crying fit she tried to stave off the entire time the Major was assaulting her hits her in the chest. Some tiny part of her is telling her that Nate will find her, he'll rescue her, but the rest of her would rather have had Cliff shoot her after he was done to spare her dignity. Dead women couldn't feel shame. 

Ten _years_ of risking life, limb and personal sanctity as the most prolific mercenary ever born in Canada and she'd been able to keep herself safe, up until now. She tries kicking the floor out of bitter frustration but a sudden electric jolt of pain makes her scream, and she gingerly lays her legs down flat, sucking in shuddering breaths. Now that the Major is gone she can smell the sickly-sweet odor of blood lingering. 

The board over the window means she can't keep track of time very well, but there is a sliver of golden sunlight projecting against the wall nearest to her. Probably about six o'clock, then, and just before she'd been taken it was around three. 

"How long are you going to _take?_ " she moans to the ceiling, droning sobs threatening to leak out. The idea of being stuck here all night is almost worse than the assault itself-- she's so fucking _close,_ all he has to do is smash in the window-- 

A distant creak makes her lift her head up despite the stinging pain from her neck. She holds her breath, sudden terror gripping her that the Major's changed his mind and come back, and for a long moment she wrestles with herself whether or not to scream. If not the Major, it could be someone else with equally worse designs on her. 

Fuck it. At the very least, they'd probably be made of flesh, and her legs were still free. "I'm in here! Help me, pour l'amour de Dieu, je suis ici!"

"Stand back from the door," someone calls from the other side of it, and it occurs to Bette that she hasn't heard footsteps. She drags up her knees and tries to cross her ankles to give herself some measure of dignity as the lock on the door glows red-hot and melts. 

Ah, she'd forgotten that Superman owed Nate favors. He stops dead short for half a second as the door swings open, abject horror painting his face, and then without hesitation flies the short distance between them and pulls his cape off of his shoulders to cover her.

"Sors moi d'ici maintenant," she demands shakily as he kneels down next to her. French carries her urgency more fluently and sharply, even if her voice is shaky and hoarse.

"Just a second, let me get this stuff off of your hands." He's all business as he pries gently at the black matter-- _too_ gently, she thinks at first, but it turns to powder under his fingers and she hits him in the shoulder accidentally when he frees her right hand. Her skin is bruised and reddened, her fingertips burned from digging into the black matter while it was still hot, but she grabs onto Superman's cape despite the pain. 

When he frees her left hand, Bette wraps both arms around herself and sucks in air, allowing him a necessary touch to bring her up to a half-sit-- and then a lightning storm of agony explodes in her pelvis and she cringes with the effort to hold in a scream. 

"Okay. Okay. Lay back down, we're going to get you an ambulance--" He touches her shoulder, far too close to the bite wound, and she snaps at his hand like a wounded animal. He jerks his hand back, his face softening in a way that makes her stomach curdle. "I'm sorry."

"Je veux quitter cet endroit," she growls. 

"I know you do, but if you can't sit up right now I won't be able to move you. The ambulance should be here in a few minutes." He kneels down next to her, hands on his thighs where she can see them, a calculated amount of distance between his knee and her shoulder. 

"Where.. is.. Nathaniel?" English feels ungainly and slow coming from her lips, and she uses the edge of his cape to wipe her face, wincing at how tender her nose is.

"Captain Atom is tracking down Major Force, along with some other Leaguers we mustered on short notice. Do you want me to call h-"

" _Non_ ," she snaps, exhaling harshly as her stomach clenches. Cold sweat is beginning to plaster her bangs to her forehead, and her head thumps back against the floor. "I do not want him here. Keep him away from me until I'm cleaned up."

"Okay." Superman raises his head suddenly, like a dog catching a scent. "The ambulance is pulling up. I'm going to go out and guide them into the building to find you, but I'll leave the door open, alright?"

"Okay." She watches his hand warily as he touches her shoulder, clutching the smooth fabric of his cape to her front as a gust of wind from his takeoff washes over her. Shivers are starting to wrack her, from her core to all her limbs, and as the floor seems to fall away she realizes she must be going into shock. 

She awakens, reluctantly, pillowed against soft fabric. Disoriented, she raises her hand to block out the bright light, and then realizes something's attached quite securely to her wrist. The light dims, and a warm hand touches hers, coaxing her to lower her hand before she tugs on her IV line too hard. 

"Hi, baby." She'd know that voice anywhere-- she reaches for Nate, somewhere off to her left as her vision sharpens, and finally his face comes into view. His eyes and nose are red, like he's been crying, and a few days' worth of white stubble is peppered on his cheeks and chin. 

"Nate," she murmurs through dry lips. He catches her hand, but despite his gentle touch she winces. Nate moves his hand up to her forearm.

"How are you feelin', darlin'?" he asks, leaning in to prop his chin on the bed rail. She licks her lips, wiggles her toes and her fingers, tries to bend her stiff knees. 

"Je pense que je suis vivant," she rasps finally, reaching for his face to feel the warmth of his cheek on her palm. He leans into her touch immediately, his cheek scratchy and hot.

"What's that mean?"

"Learn some fucking French already," she groans. Nate makes a noise somewhere inbetween a laugh and a sob, turning his face to kiss her palm. His eyelashes are damp when she runs her fingers over his closed eyes delicately. 

Silly boy, crying over someone else's wounds. She takes her hand back to feel the bite wound in her shoulder, rubbing at the scabs until Nate gently tugs her hand away. "Don't."

"Did you find him?" She turns to look him in the eyes again. Being reminded of the Major's existence makes Nate tense up a bit, some kind of fire lighting deep in his eyes.

"Yes, but the motherfucker got to Bialiya before we could grab 'im, an' Superman says we can't have another 'diplomatic incident'." He gestures in the air, making finger-quotes. "Half a mind to do it anyways but Diana told me to stay here with you while she handled it."

"Hmm." She's still owed favors in Bialiya, but she won't make him an accomplice by telling him that. Instead she moves to sit up, wincing slightly when something deep inside her is tugged. "Ow."

"Bibi, wait, lemme sit you up with the bed." Nate rests a hand on her shoulder until she lays back, then uses the remote to sit the upper half of the bed up; the tension in her gut eases as her muscles relax. "There. Better? Ya want some water?" 

"Oui." She reaches for the cup when Nate comes back with it, spilling some on her gown when she refuses to use the straw he offers her. Nate tries to wipe up some of the spill with a napkin, but she bats his hand aside; she's injured, not an invalid. 

"Miss sans Souci?" A young woman peeks her head in the door, and Nate's head whips around so fast Bette hears a 'pop'. 

"Mister Adam," the woman says, stepping in with her tablet held to her chest. 

"I know, I know, I was supposed to let y'all know when she started wakin' up. Sorry." He doesn't look sorry in the least. "Bibi, this is Doctor Birkan."

"Bonjour." Bette extends her free hand to be gently clasped in the doctor's. Poor circulation has reduced her olive hands to approximately the temperature of an ice cube, which feels rather nice against Bette's skin.

"Hello. How are you feeling? How's your pain?" Birkan comes around the other side of the bed and takes a look at the bite mark on Bette's neck, her fingers careful.

"I have no pain, except when I try to sit up." Bette tenses up when Birkan rests a hand on her breastbone in what was surely intended to be a comforting gesture; the doctor pulls her hand away.

"That's good. Mister Adam, if you don't mind, I'd like to explain to her what we did while she was in surgery." 

Nate flounders, looking from her to Bette like a child searching for permission to stay. Bette waves a hand at him dismissively. "Go."

"But--" he starts.

"Leave. I want to hear what she says without you interrupting. Get me a pastry." Not that she's got an appetite, but Nate will almost assuredly be distracted enough to get himself one, which will give the doctor more time to talk. 

His eyes are downcast and reluctant, but he nods and brushes his fingers against her forearm as he leaves. When the door shuts behind him, Bette leans back. "He did not tell me that you did surgery at all."

"We had to," the doctor explains, apologetic for some reason. "I can give you the details, but please be sure to tell me if it's too much for you, okay?"

"I am not a fainting maiden from your stories about Napoleon. Tell me what you've done." 

"Okay. Well, first off, you've got some burns on your inner thighs, but they're only first degree so they should heal up pretty well without scarring." The doctor takes a look at her tablet, running through her notes. "Your cervix and vaginal wall were perforated and you lost a substantial amount of blood. There's not a lot of trauma to either your bladder or bowel, so you don't have to worry about a fistula, but you're going to have to watch out for bladder leakage until your pelvic floor muscles heal from the tearing you've got. Alright?"

"What else?" Bette says impatiently, arms wrapping around her midsection. 

"You had some incursion into your uterus, and there's some trauma to the inner lining, but the only perforations we repaired were outside of it. If you're planning on having children, I.. well.. obviously I wouldn't recommend it for a year or so at least. You need time to heal." Dr. Birkan looks like she's searching for the cause of Bette's dissatisfaction, one eyebrow rising. 

"And sex?" Bette prompts her. Birkan's eyebrow rises further still.

"I wouldn't recommend anything penetrative for at least twelve weeks." She gestures to the bite mark on Bette's neck. "And that is likely going to scar over, unfortunately. You can minimize it by--"

"By keeping it out of sunlight, yes, yes, I know." Bette waves her hand. "Thank you. When will I be able to go home?"

"I.. well.. we're going to keep you under observation for the next four or five days until you're able to have a comfortable bowel movement on your own. You're also going to need to talk to law enforcement." 

"If you people let the police wake me up to talk to me I'll climb out the window," Bette threatens, jerking her head towards the closed curtains. Birkan laughs softly, like it's some kind of joke. 

"So noted. I'll leave you alone and let you rest now, okay? If you need anything, the nurse's button is right here." The doctor motions to the remote that controls the position of Bette's bed, then takes her leave, the door clicking shut gently behind her.

Bette exhales. Inhales, exhales, feels the cool air against her tongue, curls her fingers and concentrates. Six inches above her left hand, sparks pop and fly.

She won't be caught off guard again.


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for: explicit rape with some blood described, associated humiliation from mid-act rescue.

After all the fucked-up, genuinely treasonous shit that Major Force has done with the blessing of the Project, the irony is not lost on Nate that the final straw for the government was a few congenial dinners with the queen of Bialiya. Never mind about the multiple rape accusations, or the fact that an entire section of the morals clause of the Justice League was created to prevent him from joining. Forget about the conga line of humiliations for both himself and the entire military establishment-- breadsticks broken with an enemy of the United States is what has Eiling set to boil over.

The problem is that the explosive trigger set in Major Force's skull is no longer working. His acquired immunity to the tranquilizing gas was something they'd figured out already, but no one had anticipated the Major being able to deactivate the remote receiver planted under his skin. Nate's not sure if Eiling is angrier about that or dinner with the Queen Bee, but either way, the General had finally given Nate an order he was more than happy to follow: _bring the bastard in, and I'll give you an extra medal if he's dead._

" _Zmeck!_ " Nate bellows from across the border line. Iran has a bullet-kissed marker denoting where it ends and Bialiya begins, and Nate's hovering a few inches above and behind it to try and avoid a diplomatic incident. "Get your golden ass out here! We're going home!"

No response. Nate sends out a pulse of energy with a wave of his arm, kicking up dust under his feet; if Major Force is within fifty miles (which intelligence says he ought to be) he'll feel it and hone in on Nate's location. 

At least it's nice out. Nate's always liked Iran, even when he was being shot at and bleeding out on its soil. Being bulletproof now gives him the luxury of actually getting to know some of the people that might have shot him before. One of those people is sitting in a Humvee a few yards away, looking quite bored as he cleans the railgun mounted on the back. 

Distantly, Nate feels a faint ripple out on the horizon and straightens his posture, sending out another pulse. Two seconds later, a plume of dust starts to form on the horizon, and his radar signal is returned in the form of a half-solid beam of energy that nearly knocks Nate on his ass.

"Get out of here! Call the League!" Nate shouts in Persian, floating back down to the ground to plant his feet.

"What about you?" Vahid calls, scrambling back to the driver's seat.

"Never mind about me, I can hold my own! Get out before he gets here!" Nate swings an arm at Vahid, his eyes sparking as Major Force's energy signature swells. His flight ceiling is incredibly low, owing to his weight and his limited propulsion capability, so the dust plume that he's kicking up looks even more impressive. 

Nate waits, sucking in a breath until the green glow of Major Force's eyes is visible through the clouds, and then swings out of his grip and grabs his leg as the Major coasts by him at a leisurely 120 miles per hour. They crash to the ground, breaking Nate's hold on Zmeck's leg, but Nate decelerates and lands standing calf-deep in sand while Zmeck ends up laying on his back.

"Now that was too goddamn dramatic," Nate complains, rising out of the sand and finding himself a more secure foothold on rockier soil. The air clears as Zmeck gets his bearings back, but Nate stops mid-stride as he notices something rectangular, metallic black with blue lights, clutched in Zmeck's hand.

Before Nate can pre-emptively shoot it Zmeck presses a button on its top and the dilusteel coating Nate's body immediately pulls away, as if revolted by the energy it's giving off. Nate collapses to his suddenly flesh-and-bone knees, gasping for air as he struggles to hold onto the dilusteel, but it absorbs back into his body with a struggle, leaving behind streaks of red irritated skin on his newly exposed arms and chest.

Shit. If he'd known Zmeck was going to pull something like this out of his ass, he would've worn more than just his underwear.

"Well-well-well, wouldja look at that," Zmeck crows, getting to his feet. There's no use running, especially not when Nate can acutely feel the ninety-degree air on his skin, so he rises slowly, watching Zmeck like a hawk. "I told Queenie I knew you were nearby an' she said this might help me out. She gives me the best presents, didja know that?"

"What the fuck did you just do to me?" Nate snaps, taking a step back when Zmeck gets too close. He's grinning like he just found the secret to eternal life, and Nate very much doesn't like that look in his eyes.

"S'called a reality anchor. I've been feedin' her some of Megala's files an' her people came up with somethin' to disrupt yer connection to the dilusteel temporarily. Sucks, don't it, bein' forced to power down? I'm lucky, cause I can't. Doesn't work on me a bit." His free hand snaps out to grab Nate by the neck, lifting him off the ground until Nate's forced to brace his feet on Zmeck's thigh so he doesn't strangle. "Stupid, stupid, stupid. Comin' out here without backup. You ain't even got your radio on you, do ya? What were you thinking?"

"Fuck-- you--" Nate chokes out, and Zmeck just laughs, dropping him back down on his ass.

"Nice try." He plants his foot in the middle of Nate's chest, pinning him down securely. "Me, I never take a fight I know I'm gonna lose, cause what's the point? Even if this thing hadn't worked, I've kicked your ass before and I woulda done it again."

"Sounds more to me like ya can't-- know yer gonna win a fight 'less I'm-- powered down," Nate gasps, struggling to refill his lungs with the weight of Zmeck's foot on him. The air so close to the ground is almost burning hot-- sweat barely has time to bead on Nate's forehead before it evaporates away. 

"Now, now, it woulda been rude to turn down a gift from a queen, wouldn't it?" Zmeck wags the little box at Nate, his head and shoulders blotting out the sun. 

"She'll-- use it-- on you," Nate wheezes. "She'll figure out how to-- to make it work on you."

"Oh, I bet she will. She's real smart for a broad." Zmeck lifts his foot off of Nate's chest, moving to squat down over him, feet at either side of his waist. Nate tries to move away, pulling himself on his elbows, but Zmeck grabs him by the hair. "Ah-ah-ah. Jus' cause I can't punch you without killin' ya doesn't mean I'm done with ya. Yer backup ain't nowhere to be seen, an' Queenie doesn't need me back right away, so let's say we've got.. what, half n' hour before somebody notices you're gone?"

Nate hisses at him, a hand snapping up to try and dislodge Zmeck's fingers from his hair, but Zmeck just laughs and throws him back against the ground as he lets go. His mood is turning, more calculating than playful now, some kind of planned cruelty in the way he's looking down at Nate. 

"You know what," he says, setting the box aside just out of arm's reach for Nate, "normally I wouldn't do this, but ya gave me an idea..."

"What the fuck are y-- _wait!_ Stop--" Nate tries to scramble out and away from Zmeck as he hooks his fingers in the waistband of Nate's briefs, but with hardly more than a flick of his wrist they're shredded to pieces. He pins Nate down with a hand against his throat, braced lower so Nate won't get the luxury of passing out as Zmeck strips him.

"Stop? But you're the one that said 'fuck you'. You're givin' me mixed signals here, Captain." Nate's heart jumps into his throat with fear at the leer that stretches Zmeck's metallic lips. He can't move-- trying to claw at Zmeck's arm isn't going to work no matter how hard he tries-- and just to make things worse the bigger man sits back on his haunches, pinning Nate's knees down.

"You're _sick_ , the League's gonna get here any fuckin' second and see what you're doin'--"

"Say one more word," and Zmeck leans in with his forefinger pressing to Nate's lips, "and I'll pinch your dick off and feed it to you."

Nothing about his demeanor says he's joking. Nate growls up at him, fingers digging into the dirt underneath as his heart threatens to escape his chest. He's _pinned_ and the dilusteel is still refusing to surface. Powered up, this wouldn't be an option for Zmeck at all, and Nate could aim his energy blasts at Zmeck's eyes. As himself, Nate is so helpless it's almost funny. 

"I know what you're thinkin'," Zmeck says, reaching down to almost casually tap Nate's soft dick this way and that. Nate jolts at the touch, grinding his teeth and straining against the weight on his legs. "And I wouldn't say I'm gay, 'cause there's nothing about a man's body that a woman isn't better at. Tits, for example. But I've been a good boy for Queenie, so I don't think she'll mind if I bring you back already broken in."

Zmeck leans in, wrapping his hand around Nate, completely enveloping him in his palm. His hand is so hot to the touch it's uncomfortable, and every muscle in Nate's body struggles to pull away, but all Zmeck has to do is put a single finger in the middle of his chest to keep his upper half from moving too much. "Besides. Eiling told me all about you. Poor little orphan boy, raised in foster homes. I bet this isn't your first rodeo with a bigger man, huh?"

Nate's stomach turns over on itself as he looks up at Zmeck, his lips pulling back from his teeth when Zmeck tightens his grip and drags upwards. The noise that comes out of Nate is halfway inbetween a whimper and a whine. 

"Oh, poor _baby,_ " Zmeck croons down at him mockingly, thumb rubbing across the head of Nate's cock. His other hand snaps to Nate's jawline when Nate tries to turn away, holding his head still. "Did it hurt, huh? Don't worry, it can always get worse than that." 

" _Please--_ no, please," and Nate yelps as Zmeck lifts himself up just enough to pick Nate up by his neck and shoulder and flip him over onto his front. Nate hooks his fingers into the rocky ground and tries to drag himself away, scraping his chest and gathering dirt under his nails, but Zmeck plants a hand inbetween Nate's shoulderblades. 

"That was fast. What was that about 'oh you can't beat me without tools' and 'fuck you'? And we're already to the 'oh please don't fuck my ass' stage. Wade would be disappointed." Zmeck spits, and half a second later Nate goes rigid as his hand presses inbetween his buttocks, searching for and finding Nate's hole. 

"Don't-- _nnnuh_ \--" Begging is absolutely useless and Nate knows it, so he finally grits his teeth and struggles not to let a sob leak out as Zmeck rubs his entrance back and forth roughly. The rocky ground bites into Nate's chest when Zmeck pushes him down to make a point, then slides his palm down Nate's back, mocking the touch of a lover. 

"Still not seein' anybody comin' to help, by the way. If you were wondering." Before Nate can think up a retort, Zmeck presses a finger in, his triumphant laugh drowned out by Nate's sharp scream. He flails wildly, trying to push or slap Zmeck away from him even though part of him knows it's fruitless, but when he feels something give and Zmeck slide in to the second knuckle he freezes up with a drawn-out droning groan of agony.

"Quit your hollering, you sound like the last woman I fucked," Zmeck grouses, already trying to ram in another finger alongside. Nate's back arches inwards, his forehead pressing against gravel as he hyperventilates through his teeth. It _hurts_ , and just when he thinks it can't hurt any worse Zmeck twists his fingers and sinks in to the last knuckle, getting another shaking yell out of Nate. 

"If this is how you're gonna be I'm gonna have to gag you when we get back to Bialiya," Zmeck complains, his free hand lifting away from Nate's hip. "Hold the fuck _still_ if you wanna keep your head on your shoulders."

Nate wraps his arms around his head, palms over each other on the back of his skull, and some distant part of himself removed from the agony remarks that he didn't know he could produce so much snot and tears. Then something much bigger and blunter than fingers starts pushing into his ass and Nate cries out, something like _please_ and _stop_ jammed up by screaming, and Zmeck lets out a shivering, happy moan. 

"Oh, come _on_. You're not even bleedin' that much yet." Zmeck slaps his ass, but not hard enough that Nate can process it over the burning agony sinking into him. Kicking the ground doesn't stop it, either, and Nate doesn't realize he's doing so until little jolts of pain from his abused knees filter through the static in his brain. He manages to quiet himself somewhat, bringing his volume back down to a muffled near-constant growl, and then Zmeck juts his hips forward and Nate _shrieks_. 

"Alright, choir boy," Zmeck laughs, low and husky. The shadow over Nate's body shifts as Zmeck bends over him, arms braced around Nate's shoulders, his weight pinning Nate securely against the ground. Nate presses his eyes into the crook of his elbow and sobs openly, still trying to push himself out from underneath Zmeck's titanic mass. Then Zmeck draws out and slams back in down to the base, his hips hitting Nate's ass with a firm _whap_ , and for a long moment everything whites out.

His chin scrapes against the dirt as Zmeck starts thrusting, long and deep and slow, like he's trying to prolong it as much as possible. Nate's voice cuts out on him when another scream tries to force its way up, so he falls back on trying not to pass out, sucking in desperate breaths tinged with barely-human moans. Zmeck's breath against his neck is boiling hot, and he reaches for one of Nate's hands to hold it in some kind of sick imitation of lovemaking, his grip so tight that the tips of Nate's fingers turn pale. 

"Attaboy, come on, you're takin' it _real_ good," Zmeck growls in his ear. His teeth nick Nate's earlobe, then his cheek, and he licks a bead of sweat running down Nate's temple. "You're so _tight_ , choir boy, must have been a while, huh? Never had anybody as big as me before?" When Nate doesn't respond coherently, Zmeck grabs him by his hair and yanks his head back, the gleaming sand blinding Nate for a moment after so long spent facedown. " _Tell me._ "

"Nnnuh-non-nobody-- _else_ \-- please, I don't, I don't _want_ it," Nate sobs, his head dropping back down against his forearm when Zmeck releases his grip. Zmeck changes angles and there's a sudden sharp spark of pleasure through the agony that makes Nate jolt from head to toe; when it happens again on Zmeck's next thrust Nate nearly howls. 

"Right there, huh? Keep doin' that? Is that what you said?" Zmeck taunts him, smacking his ass. Nate lets out a hoarse yell when Zmeck speeds up, the momentary reprieve dashed to pieces, his teeth creaking with how hard his jaw is clenched. If he can just get through this without passing out, he might be able to power up after Zmeck is done with him, and then he can fucking _kill the fucking bastard_ \--

As if he'd been abducted by some type of UFO, one second Zmeck is on top of him and the next he's gone. Nate jumps at the sound of something impacting Zmeck, but a second later when he realizes Zmeck has seemingly vaporized Nate rolls onto his back and struggles to sit up, tears blurring his vision. Something is tangling with Zmeck in a flash of red and blue and gold, but he can't see _what_.

"Captain!" A blue curtain falls over Nate, heavy and thick and most importantly more than enough fabric to cover him completely. He wraps it around his shoulders and stares up at the green figure coming in for a landing, barely recognizing J'onn until J'onn grabs his face in his hands.

\-- _Nathaniel,_ J'onn's mental voice booms in his skull, and Nate turns away with a cry. _Sorry I'm sorry I can you tell me what happened show me--_

"Get-- the _fuck_ \-- out," Nate wheezes, clawing at J'onn's arms. Despite his reaction, the second he feels his skull become his again he falls against J'onn's shoulder, and J'onn pulls his cape tighter around Nate's side. The rest of the Leaguers are starting to arrive, now, late and looking very confused, and Nate presses his face into J'onn's chest when Superman touches down.

"Παράδοση!" Diana's sharp cry echoes across the plain, followed by a crack of lightning that makes Nate's chest tighten. The dilusteel is beginning to respond, slowly, but he still can't fucking power up.

"What happened?" Superman asks, turning to J'onn.

"I'm not certain. He is unresponsive and injured. We must get him back to the Watchtower." One of J'onn's hands slides underneath Nate's knees, lifting him up easily into a bridal hold, and Nate cringes in expectation of pain that doesn't hit. He looks up at J'onn, half confused and half enraged that it took them so long to get there, and realizes what the tension in his brow means. 

"Muh-- the m--" Nate stammers.

"Shhh." J'onn's presence in his mind now is much less intense, more like gentle fingers through his hair, coaxing him to rest. "J'onn to Watchtower. Two to transport, and have a medical cot ready."

The transport process is a bit of a blur, but Nate can feel the change in the air once the Watchtower solidifies around them, and suddenly his skin is burning hot everywhere below his neck. Batman is there, for some reason, him and J'onn carefully lowering Nate down onto a stretcher, and just as Nate's about to object to being manhandled J'onn puts forth the mental suggestion that he ought to sleep.

Waking is an uncomfortable experience. Nate isn't naturally a belly sleeper anymore, so waking facedown sends him into a sharp panic once he realizes his orientation in space; the sudden touch to his head doesn't help that much either, but then a woman's voice filters through his half-sleeping mind, and Nate quiets down.

"You're safe," she-- Diana, that's her voice, Nate's never heard another woman with such a nice baritone-- murmurs, her palm against the back of his head. "You're on the Watchtower. Can you try to turn over?"

"Ungh," Nate groans. Step-by-step his creaking joints pull him from his stomach to his left side, facing Diana. She untangles the mess of cables trying to wrap around his neck, then sits down, her hair like black curtains around her oval face. 

"Are you in pain?" She asks, fingertips just barely touching his hand. Nate shakes his head-- everything's stiff, and he can feel a slight throb in his knees, but nothing really hurts.

"Fentanyl?" He guesses, and she shakes her head. 

"Proprietary Themysciran medicine. Your injuries are mostly healed, but you had heatstroke as well." Diana taps the IV in his left wrist gently. "Later, before we discharge you, we'll see if you can power up."

Ah. Right. He turns away to stare up at the ceiling, eyes unfocusing. The metal plates turn blurry and he blinks as Diana brushes her fingers against his cheek, coming away wet.

"Is he dead?" Nate almost doesn't want to know the answer, but he looks back up at Diana. When she shakes her head in the negative, Nate grinds his teeth, willing himself not to spill any more tears and failing. "Why the hell _not?_ "

"He is very difficult to kill," Diana begins, "and still wanted for other crimes besides your assault. But we were able to use the weapon he used on you to depower him. He is in a prison of Oan making, waiting for his court martial for treason to begin."

"He should be dead." Nate searches the far wall for some kind of answer, a hidden equation that'll make the last 24 hours make sense. 

"Yes," Diana says. Her simple agreement makes Nate turn to look at her in surprise. "But that is not my decision, or yours. You need to rest. Is there anyone you would like us to call?"

"Yes," Nate snaps, pulling himself up into a slouched-over sit. "You c'n let the other founders know I'm gonna be retirin' from the League as soon as I got my legs under me again."

"Nathaniel--"

"Be _quiet_." He can see the reflection of his glowing eyes in Diana's headband, and despite the hurt plainly written on her face, he plows on. "I know I asked to get my ass kicked goin' out there by myself with no radio, but that was _after_ I asked Superman for backup an' he told me I ought not to get myself involved in military affairs again. Like Major Force ain't a danger to every thing that walks on two legs? And _then_ , bad enough that you folks dragged your fuckin' asses for so long, but then you all had t-- to see me. Like _that_." He lays back against the bed, grinding his teeth, his stomach growling in an awful mixture of nausea and hunger. "There ain't no comin' back from that. Not here, not for me. I don't care how upstanding y'all pretend you are, gossip goes around."

"Not from us," Diana insists. "I know you feel humiliated, that you have lost your honor, but you should at least think about this before you--"

"Diana, I like you. Don't make me mad at you. Not right now, please." Nate doesn't look her in the face, doesn't respond when she wraps her hand around his, and doesn't let his lip tremble when she pulls away. 

"I will leave, and let you rest," she decides, "and when I come back if you tell me a second time that you want to leave I will not argue with you." She pauses, her golden eyes still boring into his head. "What about your family?"

" _No._ " The thought of either of his children-- the shame at either of them finding out (especially Randy, God, has he not shamed his only son enough by existing?) already threatens to choke him just thinking about it. In his heart, neither of them are taller than his knee. They don't need to know.

"Very well." Diana touches the back of her hand to Nate's forehead, and Nate closes his eyes until he hears the door shut. 

When he's sure he can't hear her footsteps anymore, he raises his hands to his face, pressing his fingertips into his eyelids until stars break out across his vision, and takes a breath that turns into a guttural sob.


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combo prompt.
> 
> Major Force was a rapist and a murderer before he was made into Captain Atom's replacement.
> 
> This comes out when he sodomizes Nathaniel, and being a man from the 1960s he doesn't say anything. So he's slowly suffering with that, while he does everything he can to make sure no one knows.
> 
> / 
> 
> While growing up on Apokolips, Scott was sexually abused. He never told anyone on Earth because it was a long time ago and frankly its no one’s business, but then one of his teammates is raped. Not wanting them to go through it through it alone like he did, Scott reaches out and does his best to comfort them.

A lot of human people tend to forget Scott is actually an alien. Among the metahuman community, the idea of 'passing' for human is a frequently discussed topic, especially since some of the foremost metahumans can pass for human without any effort. 

There's more advantages to it than disadvantages. Barda and him have a townhouse in Manhattan, and if Barda pulls her hair up and puts on a pair of sunglasses hardly anyone will recognize her. Scott, whose uniform covers his entire face, can walk down the street arm-in-arm with her on a sunny afternoon, and he's free to marvel at the entire concept of being _free_ , with her at his side.

They're not human, though. The JLI (aside from J'onn and Batman, the former maintaining his alien heritage and the latter a step removed from his own species) tends to forget that. Ted, particularly, assumes that Scott will get whatever social reference he makes, and Scott's stopped asking him for context because it just gets awkward. Guy remembers at his own leisure, usually when he either wants to "flirt" with Barda or make himself a pain in Scott's ass. Booster remembers, sometimes, and Scott forgives him when he doesn't because he genuinely likes him-- when he's not humiliating the JLI along with Ted. Bea and Tora are both from other countries, and Tora especially understands the feeling of being _othered_ despite the fact that almost no one assumes she's an immigrant before she talks.

And then there's the Captain. Captain Atom seems a little bit bumbling and out of place, at first, and it made Scott wonder how exactly he'd managed to make it all the way to his rank (though, he reminds himself often, it doesn't work the same here as it did on Apokolips). Then something will happen-- some emergency, some life-threatening invasion, an opponent only one of their heavy hitters can take, and it's as if the Captain comes to life. 

Ted doesn't seem to trust him, despite the fact that Cap knew the Blue Beetle previous to him. He outright admits to Scott that it's not based in any kind of fact, and as they get to know each other more Ted and Cap become seemingly good friends. Not nearly as tight as Ted and Booster, because the Captain isn't an irredeemable idiot, but their initial friendship seems to bring Cap out of his shell a little bit.

And then, like a snap, just before the JLI's one-year anniversary comes up Cap does a sharp 180 in attitude. Scott's gotten to know him well enough to understand how his temper works, most of the time, or so he thought. Cap's gone for a week-- some kind of personal thing, he says-- and then it's like suddenly Cap thinks he's in danger all the time: he becomes reactive to even a simple shoulder touch, even from _Tora_ , who beforehand was the only one who had the privilege of being able to "sneak" up on Cap and try to pick him up from behind. 

The JLI starts walking on eggshells around him, except for J'onn, who's dealt with Guy being childish a little too much and is no longer in the mood to entertain anybody's tantrums. Scott is baffled at Cap's sudden mood change, and even more still when he starts to vacillate between almost apologetic and too easily provoked. It reminds Scott too much of PTSD, and of Barda's occasional whiplashes earlier in their relationship. Cap seems to level out over the next month, though it's not really him calming down-- moreso, he just becomes colder. He lingers quietly at the edge of any conversation, resists being brought into the group, and often disappears if things become too jovial and intense.

Meanwhile, Oberon gets the co-ed hot tub at the embassy repaired. Scott, for whom even a cold hose was an unspeakable luxury growing up, spends nearly half an hour going in and out of it the first day, till his toes prune up and he gets pleasantly dizzy from overheating. The novelty of it wears off after the first week, so when Scott finds himself unable to sleep late at night when he's just come off shift, he often unwinds by spending ten or fifteen minutes in the hot tub. If Bea and Tora aren't in it. Or Ted and Booster. Or J'onn-- not that Scott doesn't think of J'onn as a friend, but whenever J'onn's in the hot tub Scott can just _tell_ he wants his solitude. 

Which leads up to an average Friday night, a month and a half after Captain Atom's strange attitude adjustment and two weeks after the fabled resurrection of the hot tub. Scott's got his towel and his bathing mask in one hand and his rubber sandals in the other, padding down the hall silently to the hot tub room, when he hears the jets going. Normally, that would be his cue to turn right around and go put his shoes back on, but for once Scott feels like being social, so he opens the door and peeks his head in.

He doesn't recognize the person in the hot tub. That's a first. Whoever's there is certainly acting like he belongs in there, though, and when he turns his head Scott puts jawline and ear together and makes Captain Atom. He's never seen him powered down before, although he knew he could. 

A dilemma. Cap is having a calm and decent time by himself, but he's also been distancing himself lately, and Scott feels the urge to try and drag him back into the fold. He argues with himself silently for a minute, hanging onto the doorframe, and then Cap leans forward and Scott's heart catches in his throat.

Livid purple handprints cover Cap's back, standing out harsh against his skin. There's one just below his neck, the palmprint dark like someone pushed him down. Symmetrical bite marks on each shoulder, identical in age. An older handprint around Cap's left bicep, more greenish than purple. Cap raises himself up out of the water, moving slowly and deliberately, and in the low light the mark of a hard grip on his hips stands out all the more. 

Scott closes the door as quietly as possible, turns around, and jogs right back down the hallway. There's only one answer, and Scott desperately does not want it to be true, but he's seen bruises like that. In a dirty mirror, on a body thinner and slighter than how he looks now, but he still carries some of the physical scars with him.

Shit. Shit, shit, _shit._ What the fuck is he supposed to do? He pulls his uniform out of his locker and starts getting redressed, fumbling with his pants. He can't just go back in there and say "hey, nice tattoos you've got, have a fun time last night?" or "jeez, Captain, those look pretty bad, everything okay at home?" 

Well, he could, actually. But he's definitely not prepared to have that conversation right now. He pulls his boots on, then his mask, wincing at the portrait of a coward in the mirror before he closes his locker. 

The moment he gets home and changes into his lounge pants, Barda notices something is wrong, because she's just good like that and Scott loves her. It goes mutually unspoken until after dinner, when Barda takes Scott's half-full plate and raises an eyebrow at how much food he's left behind. 

"What's wrong?" she asks. Scott puts his elbows on the table and rubs his closed eyes.

"You know how I was telling you about how much of a dick Captain Atom was to Bea the other day?" When she nods, Scott continues. "And how he's been being a dick for no reason for like a month now and we're all getting tired of it?"

She nods again and sits down, pushing the dinnerware out of the way. "I recall all of this. Did you figure out why?"

"Oh, yeah, I did. I was going to make myself late for dinner again by hanging out in the hot tub, but Cap was there and naked as the day he was born. Someone's been whaling on him." Scott folds one hand over the other fist. "I think.. I didn't ask, and I didn't get a good look, but it was kind of.. suspicious."

"Not just a training accident gone wrong?" Barda asks. Scott shakes his head. Neither of them want to say it, but they both know what the other means. Her brow furrows deep. "You must talk to J'onn about it. He'll know what to do."

"How the hell do I bring it up to him, though?" Scott taps his palms against the tabletop. "And how do I-- you've _met_ Captain Atom, he could obliterate me with his _pinky_."

"Is that an excuse to leave him suffering?" Barda lays her hands across Scott's, and he exhales, shaking his head. 

"No," he admits, interlacing his fingers with hers. "I just-- you know, I don't think I can duck fast enough if he decides he wants to punch me."

"That's why you bring it up to J'onn, so you don't have to worry about it." Her face softens, and she rubs her thumb against his, her feet moving to cover his toes under the table. "Would you like me with you?"

"No. No offense, it's just.. the less numbers the better. I don't want him to feel cornered." Not that he hadn't felt cornered when it had been just Barda, but the experience of laying out his burdens on the floor for her to inspect had taught him a lot. She nods, understanding, a private loving gentleness in her eyes that Scott feels privileged to be on the receiving end of.

He doesn't get a chance to talk to J'onn about it for a couple days, and while he has to sit on his revelation his mind turns to perhaps the most pressing question of all: _who._ Cap has no surviving family, isn't in the military anymore, doesn't have a social circle outside of the JLI. He's not a loner by nature, but he's rather effectively dropped into that niche, which was the big mystery that Scott was trying to solve about Cap before this happened.

Tuesday comes around and Scott slogs his way to the embassy with coffee in hand, pulling his mask over his face in the alleyway before he makes his presence known. He doesn't pass by anybody in the main hallway, and the general atmosphere of quiet sets his nerves on edge.

When he steps into the kitchen, J'onn has the window open and is leaning out of it halfway. Scott's nerves are practically singing by this point-- if the strangeness is contagious enough that J'onn's caught it, there's no hope. "Uh. Hi."

"Scott." J'onn pulls himself back through the window and adjusts his cape, looking the perfect picture of dignity, like a cat caught barking at the neighborhood dogs. "Offer me your opinion on the circumstances above us, please."

"Sure," Scott says, despite his foreboding. He hands J'onn his Starbucks, gives him a lingering Look so J'onn will understand that just because it smells like chocolate doesn't mean he can drink it, and then sticks his head out the window. 

There's Major fucking Force's feet. Followed by his legs, and his ass, and the rest of him floating in front of an open window. His head is stuck inside, and his hands are braced on the frame, but he's got one ankle crossed over the other as he floats in midair. 

What the hell?

"--keep telling him, I'll get to it when I get to it," Captain Atom's voice floats down. Something about his tone sets Scott on alert; his voice is shaky. "It's not like I'm a computer technician. I can barely program my VCR."

"You've got all the tools you need," Major Force says. "Get it done by tomorrow night or I'll come by and give you a personal tutor on how to work it. I need some stress relief anyhow."

Scott's scalp goes cold. He pulls himself back in sharply before Major Force has a chance to see him, and turns to J'onn. 

"Scott?" J'onn sets the coffee down on the windowsill, instantly concerned. "What's wrong?"

"I need to talk to you about-- look, just take it from my head," and Scott leans in, dread and duty coalescing together. J'onn's presence in his mind doesn't go a single thought deeper than he needs to, but when he pulls his hand away from Scott's forehead he's the one looking visibly pale.

"I see," he says. "Would you mind coming with me?"

"Sure." Oh, God, this wasn't how he wanted to have this conversation with Cap, the poor man is going to be a razor's edge after being threatened like that. He follows J'onn up the stairs, to the left, down one door and just as J'onn raises his hand to knock Cap opens the door with a vengeance.

"Shit!" he exclaims, jumping back a step. His eyes flare sharp yellow and Scott leans back, behind J'onn, who seems nonplussed.

"May we talk in private?" J'onn doesn't even wait for a reply, instead brushing past Cap's shoulder with the elegance of a born dancer. Scott is significantly more awkward and ends up bumping against the wall so he doesn't slam slides with Cap.

"Eavesdropping on my goddamn business, I assume?" Oh, that tone isn't good. Cap looks like he's about to crush the doorknob in his hand, if he hasn't already.

"I was not dropping any eaves." Whether or not J'onn intended to make any type of joke isn't immediately obvious, and he doesn't allow any room for contemplation. "Concerns have been raised in regards to your demeanor and welfare. And I for one am extremely curious as to why Major Force felt the need to hover outside of your window like a.. high school sweetheart."

If the look on his face when he opened the door was alarming, the sudden Kubrick-like contortion of rage on Captain Atom's face is downright terrifying. Scott's not too sure playing good cop/bad cop is the way to get him to open up, and he's sure he's projecting his disapproval loud enough for J'onn to notice, but the Martian just folds his arms.

"It's not your fucking _business,_ " Cap snarls. Scott marvels that Cap actually used a swear word, for once in his life. "You want me to provide a sign-in sheet? A whole account of my comings an' goings? You're not my mother, J'onn."

"No," J'onn agrees, "but you are still under my care. As a member of the JLI, your well-being is paramount to the functioning of the team as a whole. You are indispensable, and if there is some personal issue affecting your performance, I must know that it at least exists so I can plan around--"

"You know what my personal issue is?" Cap takes two long strides forward and jabs his finger at J'onn, light streaking and deforming around his eyes. "Bein' stuck in this half-ass donkey party of League washouts and _old-timers_ dreamin' of the glory days long gone. You know how much good I could be doin' if I wasn't stuck in this circus show of a group? I might've gotten here a little late but even I know half the people you make me put up with on a daily fuckin' basis wouldn't have lasted _five minutes_ in the original League--"

"Captain," Scott interjects, already exhausted. If he whips himself up into any more of a frenzy they're not going to be able to talk to him at all. "I saw you in the hot tub last Friday. That's what he means by 'personal issue'. Someone's been hurting you, haven't they?"

Cap blinks down at him. Blinks, and opens his mouth, blinks, shuts it. Scott goes to sit on the couch and doesn't speak until Cap makes up his mind and sits in the chair across from him. J'onn, radiating a calm assurance that this was how he'd planned everything to turn out, slides out of the room and lingers just outside the door.

"It's Major Force, isn't it." How and why and where don't matter yet, but Scott knows he's right. Cap doesn't even have to say 'yes'-- the way his shoulders slump as he buries his face in his hands is confirmation enough. Scott holds his heart together through sheer force of will and powers on. "Captain. We can help you better if you just _tell us_."

"I'm handling it." 

Scott sighs and pulls off his mask, setting it aside. He kneels down in front of Cap, hands settling on his wrists. Not pulling or tugging, just gently reinforcing the boundary Cap wants. "Captain. Listen to me. I understand how you feel, okay?"

"No, you _don't,_ " and the poor man sounds half a second away from tears. 

Scott bites his cheek, regains his composure, and continues. "Yes. Yes, I do, okay? The shame, the feeling like you're not strong enough to fight them off, the self-condemnation, the humiliation when someone finds out. I _know._ And I know I can't make you let me in, but I can tell you from experience that it stops being your own personal hell when you tell someone what you're going through. And I am--" Oh, come on, don't break on him now, he was doing so good. "I am so sorry that this happened to you. I'm sorry that we didn't make you feel safe enough to tell us. That's not how it should be, ever. You're a part of the JLI and we're on your side, always."

Cap rocks, his fingertips pressing into his closed eyes, and to Scott's astonishment the chrome skin covering him starts to disappear into itself. He didn't see Cap power down before, and if the skin underneath wasn't so bruised and broken the process would be mesmerizing. His hands drop away and he looks Scott in the eye, his face human and open and brimming with tears through a black eye and split lip. 

"I couldn't--" He sucks in a tremendous breath, his shoulders heaving as Scott grabs them. "I c-- couldn't tell ya cause-- you don't understand, this is what I _deserve--_ "

"No, no," and Scott wants to shake him out of horrified empathy, but he doesn't. He digs his fingertips into Cap's shoulders to try and make him look at him, to make him _see._ "You don't. You don't deserve it. Nobody could, no matter what they did, okay? It doesn't matter what you've done. You don't deserve this."

"I _do,_ " Cap nearly wails. "I've lied, I've lied to everybody, I ain't who I said I was and I've been-- I've been sendin' reports back t-- oh, God, Scott, you don't understand, they took me away from my _kids_ and then they put me here and he-- when I don't do enough, he--!"

Scott drags him down off of the chair into his arms and wraps him up as Cap starts to sob, the kind of explosive crying that comes from suffering pent up for far too long. Cap's hanging onto him with the desperation of a drowning man, his body quaking, and Scott barely remembers to keep his grip light so he doesn't press on the bruises underneath Cap's shirt. 

"He hurt me, oh God, he's hurt me," Cap cries. "I didn't want to. I swear to God, I didn't want to, _please_ believe me, I didn't want to do any of it."

Scott presses a hand to the back of his head. He doesn't know what the hell Cap's talking about, what the lie is or what reports he's been sending back to where or whom, and right now it's not important. 

"I know," he says. "You're safe. We're going to keep you safe. He's not going to touch you again. You're _safe._ "


End file.
